Calling for Change: Life on the Fracking Frontlines

I was born and raised in Belmont County, Ohio, in the often overlooked fringes of Appalachia. My mother’s sister lived in a small cottage on the edge of a reservoir called Slope Creek, and she introduced me to the immense and boundless magic of nature at a very young age. In the mornings, we awoke to the swooning calls of mourning doves. At night, we gathered in silence on bowed porches, our bodies electrified by the ghoulish hoots of barn owls. There was no greater time than that which was spent knee-deep in the creek, swatting mosquitoes with scalps and shoulders ablaze in the afternoon sun. We were too busy chatting with frogs, catching crawdads, and building fairy fortresses to worry about the socks and shoes we’d abandoned long ago.

At some point in the middle of those formative years, I learned that things were evolving around me on a fundamental level and at a pace I still cannot begin to comprehend. Amidst the bits and pieces of a newfound understanding of the world and my place within it, I noticed that my experiences in nature were changing, too. Every summer, it seemed the water level in the creek was getting lower, and it couldn’t be explained away merely by my legs growing longer. My aunt spent less time laying contented in the sunshine, a gentle smile sprawled across her lips, and more time staring at the horizon with a muddled brow.

Something was happening. No longer could we fall asleep to crickets and peepers, we fell asleep to the sounds of heavy equipment— beeps and revving, trucks and radios. The rolling hills and folds of the valley that sheltered clusters of native trilliums and fragrant ramps were now also concealing elusive bits of infrastructure that could be heard and smelled but were otherwise invisible to those not involved in their operations. It was as if the holler had been housed inside a magical bubble that had suddenly popped.